


Home AGAIN for Christmas

by Lady3jane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emergency Sex, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady3jane/pseuds/Lady3jane
Summary: This is a story I originally wrote 3 years ago at a very rapid pace. It was all about home and family and Christmas. It was inspired by my being told that Sansa/Jon was a growing ship, the Winterfell of my imagination and, of course, my love of writing smutty Fanfic.I’m not finding myself in the mood to write the RB. I had been thinking about this story because it was Christmas and because I'd recently written another JonxSansa story. Then I watched the movie “zero dark thirty” and realised I could make my 3 year old story so much better now. So it’s a re-visitation to an old friend with a hefty re-write.The original story was set in our world, present day. In redoing it I’ve decided to set in in GRRM’s world, but still present day. So they have oil rigs, Kalashnikov automatic rifles and they’ve read Alice and Wonderland. Hey, it’s fanfic – my imagination can run free!Arya’s still an assassin but hasn’t met Gendry yet. Although that’s about to change . . .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for MidnightAuroraWolf who said 'Please, please' and with thanks to Brazilian Guy for giving me his opinions which I treasure, respect and sometimes ignore.

**The Al Gharbia oil rig, the Gulf of Grief, 15 leagues from Slavers Bay**

**05.00 local time**

 

The Guild could go fuck themselves.

No way was she taking an industrial espionage assignment again.

Six hellish months in the fucking East and now this. She’d been assured by the Guild that the Gulf of Grief was safe. So safe that that Lysene pirates had been able to swarm all over the oil rig from rigid inflatable boats in the middle of the night. So much for the Guild’s intel.

Arya had despatched half a dozen of them, silently slitting throats, snapping necks and dropping lifeless bodies over the side before the sheer number of pirates had forced a change of tactics. She couldn’t deal with them all herself so she had to make a choice – escape now on her own and in doing so blow her cover or stay and hope this attack might somehow lead her to the spy she’d been tracking for six months. If she stayed she could also help the men she’d been working with on the rig. There was no choice really. She’d never failed a mission before and she wasn’t going to now.

Cursing the Guild under her breath, she’d hidden Needle, raised her hands and slipped back into the persona of trainee oil engineer she’d been using for the past three months.

The guards who had been employed to protect the rig were all dead. Either that or bought off and fled as only the staff had been rounded up and herded into the rig’s communal dining area. Her fellow prisoners had all been grim faced, some quietly sobbing, some sporting blood and bruises - proof she wasn’t the only one who had put up a fight.

However, one of her oil colleagues was missing – Theon Greyjoy, the man she’d have wagered was least likely to play the hero. His conspicuous absence confirmed what she’d already suspected – that she’d found the inside man, the traitor she’d been hunting for six months. The Guild and their clients would be pleased. If she ever made it out of here to tell them. 

Despite her close cropped hair and shapeless overalls, it had taken all of ten minutes for the pirates to discover they had a woman amongst the eleven westerners they'd captured. They'd all been searched of course and the feel of three pairs of eager hands on her as they groped in search of weapons still made her blood boil. She could have killed those three, but there were dozens more, all high from chewing Khat leaves, all excited by the Braavosi woman they hadn't expected to find.

Arya would be ready for them when they ignored their orders not to harm the merchandise. The ransom would be less if they damaged the goods but it was inevitable that eventually, when bored and high, someone would decide it was worth disobeying orders to fuck the western bitch.

Flexing her wrists against the cable ties that bound her, Arya knew it wasn’t a matter of “if”, but rather, “when” that time came.

**24 hours later . . .**

"You need to leave, or I can't do it."

"Jus' go bitch."

"I can't piss with you watching me." At least he’d cut the cable ties, allowing Arya to rub the circulation back into her wrists. She looked the pirate in the eye, defying him to take her back to the dining room without letting her relieve herself first.

A battered Kalashnikov was cradled in his arms and he had odd sandals on his feet. Funny how she still noticed mundane shit like that. She didn’t suppose the training she’d received in the House of Black and White would ever leave her, even if she left the Guild.

Her captor was just a boy, dirt poor and no doubt from some costal village. High from sleep deprivation and Khat, but a boy all the same. She supposed there would be no end of boys eager to risk their lives for a share in the million pound ransoms these pirates demanded, and sometimes got, from Westerosi oil companies. She almost felt sympathy for the Weasel boy (she'd taken to calling him that in her head). This might be his way of getting a better life for himself, but when it came down to it, he'd kill her, kill them all, with no hesitation and he'd do it whether a ransom was paid or not. Just as she would kill him, first chance she got.

"If you take me back, I'm just gonna sit there and piss myself and it's gonna stink in this heat. Up to you." She shrugged, a bead of sweat trickling down her back.

As she hoped, he relented and, cursing colourfully in at least six languages, he left, slamming the toilet door behind him.

Once she was in the cubicle, Arya thumbed the lock and lent her forehead against the cool metal. This was the first time she had been alone in the last hellish twenty-four hours; the first time she had any respite from the ceaseless, drugged-up threats of the pirates and the constant snivelling from some of her co-works. Who would have thought Hot Pie would have proved to be such a coward? He had hardly stopped muttering, "We're all gonna die," since the fucking pirates had taken over the rig. Maybe they were, but she didn't need reminding of it every five seconds. And where the fuck was Greyjoy? None of the oil workers knew and her attempts to question the pirates had fallen on deaf ears.

She didn't know how long she had, so she'd better actually pee before Weasel came back in. If it all went down, she didn't want to be pissing herself and the next twelve hours were critical. If someone was going to attempt a rescue, she knew it would be soon.

Twenty-four hours in, the pirates were sleep deprived, high for too long enjoying the booze and cigarettes they’d found on the rig. Too busy enjoying themselves, they hadn't organised themselves into sleeping or watch shifts yet. Another twenty-four hours and they’d have rested, dug-in, set up watch and then the questions would really start. She’d already been asked, “ _Is there gold hidden here? Guns, weapons?_ ” and she had no doubt the interrogation would really start.  

If a rescue didn’t happen soon, it would be weeks or even months of waiting while the oil company negotiated. Or not. One thing was sure - the Guild wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. She cursed them again. No matter how this cluster fuck ended, she was out. Westeros was calling her. Westeros and Winterfell. It had been far too long.

She said a final silent prayer for rescue to the old Gods and the new, blew out a resigned breath and pushed herself off the cubicle door.

Unzipping her shapeless orange overall, she let it fall around her boots. Before she could sit down she heard a subtle, "Psst" from above her head. She looked up, straight into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. The rest of the face was hidden in the shadows, leaving just a pair of blue eyes suspended above her in the air conditioning duct.

"Gods am I glad to see you."

"I’m the answer to your prayers baby."

He must have grinned as straight white teeth appeared in the blackness, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice and Wonderland; only eyes and a smile hanging in the air. Despite herself, she found a smile tugging at the corners of her own lips. The heat and lack of sleep must be getting to her. Gods save her from yet another arrogant arse. Arya knew from personal experience all these Special Ops guys thought they were God’s gift.

"We’ll see," she snorted. "Who the fuck are you anyway?"

She hoped she already knew. That was a Westerosi accent.

"Night’s Watch, but we'll need to finish the introductions later Arya."

He knew her name and that could only mean one thing. She breathed a sigh of relief.

_Jon._

It wasn’t the oil company and it sure was fuck wasn’t the Guild who had come to get her, it was her own dear brother.  Jon had sent this Cheshire Cat to her.

“Lord Commander’s orders. I get you out or I get my balls for breakfast.”

Yeah, that sounded like Jon. That smile tugging at her lips became a grin. “How many of you are here?”

“Six so far. Parachuted in, but there’s more on the way. You're our 'in' Arya. I've been hanging here waiting on you. The Lord Commander said you’d bust their balls so much they’d let you take a piss. Now listen…"

His voice was deep, calm, confident as he explained the plan. She listed intently, adrenaline pumping through her veins. When he was finished she nodded her agreement.

"Ok, I’m going to call our Dragons down.”

“ _Dragons?"_   Surely he couldn’t mean _real_ Dragons?

“Code name for our new modified helicopters. You've got thirty minutes from the time you step back out there. Thirty minutes before we come in through the roof. I'm told you know the drill; concussion grenades, smoke, confusion, always take the kill shot…"

She nodded again. She'd grown up hearing about it from Uncle Benjen and now Jon. This was her chance to make it all count. To make Jon proud.

"You warn whoever you can trust to keep quiet. Don't risk alerting the targets. You get the hostages down if you can when the time comes, but I've been told to say this to you – no heroics. You keep yourself safe first and foremost and that's an order from the Lord Commander himself."

She smiled. Jon again. She could just imagine him saying that. Gods willing, he'd get the chance to lecture her again soon.

"And I've to give you this. I’m told you know how to use it . . .”

A large, bare hand appeared from the blackness, presenting a handgun to her, grip first. She recognised it immediately as a SIG P232, the Night’s Watch go-to weapon for a concealed carry. As she reached up to take it from his outstretched hand, their fingers touched for the briefest moment, yet it was long enough to send a jolt of electricity shooting through her. She actually wondered if he'd given her an electric shock as her eyes shot up to his. His were unwavering, betraying nothing. She told herself she must have imagined it. As her every nerve was now stretched tight with anticipation, every sense heightened for the imminent attack, perhaps it wasn't surprising.

"You got someplace you can hide that?"

"Sure." She checked the safety was on and then pushed the pistol into her bra where it was held tightly between her breasts by black lace. It was invariable too hot on the rig to wear anything else under her shapeless orange overalls and fancy underwear was Arya's one concession to femininity. She rolled her shoulders and adjusted the cups of her bra to make sure the SIG was held firmly without pressing too uncomfortably into her breasts. Once she was satisfied she looked up into those blue eyes again. His eyes were still on her tits. So predictable.

“Hey. Soldier.”

His eyes flicked back to her face and she scowled at him, "I've still got to pee."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Don't fucking look then."

"Sure." The blue eyes and the white teeth abruptly disappeared. If hadn't heard him breathing, she would have sworn the vent was empty.

She hooked her thumbs into her Victoria’s Secret boy shorts. Now was  _not_ the time to be a prude. Even Kings and Queens had to pee. She pushed her panties down and sat on the toilet.  Despite her determination not to be embarrassed, the noise of her pee in the toilet, shattering the silence, made her cringe. Thank God it wasn't _more_ she needed. The tinkling went on and on and on – it had been twenty-four hours since she’d last peed after all. Still, she had to bite her bottom lip to stop from giggling. She might be dead in thirty minutes and all she was worried about was some arrogant arse hearing her pee. She groaned and rolled her eyes skyward, mortified, only to find his blue eyes open again, watching.

"Fuck. Off!" she hissed as angrily and as loudly as she dared.

The blue was instantly gone again, but she would have sworn she saw the pink edges of his mouth turning up in a smirk.

"Perv," she muttered as she stood up. She thought she heard him chuckle as she reached blindly for some toilet paper without taking her eyes off the air vent. The square stayed reassuringly black.

"Done," she whispered, her attention on the zip of her overalls.

"Hey, Arya."

She looked up into serious blue eyes.

"No heroics and that’s an order."

"Sure."

"See you on the other side."

"See you on the other side," she echoed. Gods, she hoped so. She wouldn't let herself think on the alternative.

Her eyes flicked away from his as the toilet door opened with a crash. Weasel was back.

"You done yet bitch?!"

Time to go. She allowed herself one sly final look up as she unlocked the cubicle door, but there was only black.

-o-


	2. 90 minutes later

 

Arya watched the lights of the rig swing away below her. From up here at night, lit up against the dark sea and sky, it reminded her of a Christmas tree and Christmas always made her think of home. A home she hadn’t seen in far too long. Resting her head against the body of the 'copter, she let the thud of the rotors sooth her. No matter what the Guild said, she was going home for Christmas.

In moments the lights were gone and in the darkness her mind replayed the image of her hand on the gun, putting a bullet in the back of Weasel boy’s head, watching as his brains splattered up the wall behind him. Gods, why had she given that boy a name? The others she'd put bullets in weren’t bothering her at all; just Weasel with his stupid mismatched sandals. In the hail of automatic gunfire, smoke and noise caused by the stun grenades, she had no idea how many of her oil rig colleagues had made it. Hot Pie’s screams still echoed in her head and where had Greyjoy gone?

She couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole thing had been a setup, that Theon Greyjoy bore ultimate responsible for all those deaths. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to banish the still vivid memories of smoke and fire and death.

Something hard bumped against her knee. She looked down to see two bigger, armour clad knees either side of her orange ones. They bumped hers again. She looked slowly up, taking in everything; black combat trousers, fully loaded belt, body armour, helmet complete with night vision goggles and camera, the blue eyed Cheshire cat grinning out at her from underneath. The bits of his face that weren't covered by his helmet and chin strap were smeared in oily camouflage paint, but at least he wasn't just eyes and teeth anymore. He was very real, very alive and very big.

_Relief washed over her. She thanked the Gods he’d made it too_ _._

"The first time sucks," he yelled above the noise of the rotors. Everyone else in the cabin turned to look.

She realised he knew nothing about her. Did he really think this was her first time? At anything? Jon’s briefing had obviously only gone so far. She sighed and shrugged, but Mr Blue Eyes was still grinning at her.

“Hey, you’ll get over it.”

Then he winked at her. Bloody hell, this was fucking surreal. If they were anywhere other than in a helicopter flying away from a bloodbath, she would have thought he was trying to chat her up. He wasn’t, was he? She scowled at him and he winked again. Yeah, he was.

She slowly blew out long breath and mentally recited her rules on men . . .

_No arrogant arses._

_No soldiers._

_And definitely no men of the Night’s Watch._

He bit the finger tip of one glove with those white teeth, pulling it off before holding out his hand. She was about to shake it and it took her a few seconds to realise he wanted his gun back.

She looked around the cabin. Mercifully, everyone else seemed to be ignoring them. She unzipped her overalls and tugged his gun out of her bra. She knew without looking, where those blue eyes would be. So damn predictable. She intended to drop the gun into his open palm, avoiding touching him, but he had other ideas. His fingers reached for her wrist and there it was again; that jolt of electricity. She jerked her hand away as if he'd burned her.

Taking back the SIG, he checked the empty clip and mouthed, "How many you get?"

If he thought this was her first time, she saw no point in bursting his bubble. She shrugged, remembering Weasel boy jerking backwards as her bullet found the back of his head.

She’d made ever one of her bullets count, but chaos didn't begin to describe it; automatic weapons fire coming from every direction, smoke, men screaming. After she had emptied the SIG’s clip she had been hell bent on finding Greyjoy. She’d searched everywhere but he wasn’t on the rig. She was sure he’d left when the pirates arrived, or even before. Fucking traitor. All this blood was on his hands.   

Mr Blue Eyes gave her a grin and a thumbs up. She rested her head against the solid body of the helicopter again and looked away, out the window into the black night.

Arya had no idea how long they had been in the air as she must have, somehow, dozed off. When she opened her eyes the lights of a city were spread out below them. The change in the drone from the rotors confirmed they were coming in for landing.

Mr Blue Eyes was looking out of the window too. She bumped his knee, still wedged between her orange ones and the fuselage. He turned towards her. No grin now, just calm, tired eyes.

"Where are we going?" she mouthed.

He shifted the big Colt rifle on his lap and leant forwards. He indicated for her to do the same. He smelled of metal, gunfire, fresh sweat and, rather incongruously, some citrusy aftershave. That made her smile. He put on aftershave before he went off to fight the bad guys.

"The helipad at the Hilton. Slaver’s Bay." His hot breath against her ear sent a shiver down her spine.

"Not the Embassy?"

He shook his head, his helmet gently bumping against the side of her face. "Politics. We're not taking the credit for this one."

Oh, God, what had Jon had to do to pull this off? And how could she every thank him? And shouldn't she thank Mr Blue Eyes too, as she'd likely never see him again.

She reached up and pressed one hand against his cheek, turning his face towards hers. She breathed "Thank you," into his ear and for some fucked-up reason gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She felt him turn and angle his mouth to hers, no doubt hoping for more, but she shoved his helmet firmly away. She knew he was laughing, although she couldn’t hear it. All she could see were his twinkling eyes.

"Perv," she mouthed at him once they were both leaning back again. That only made him laugh more. She couldn't help herself laughing too.

The 'copter banked and the rotors slowed further. She was being brought back to reality, literally with a thump.

The cabin door was hauled open before the rotors stopped spinning by more Black Brothers in helmets and body armour.

The noise was deafening, the wind hot and fierce in her face. Mr Blue Eyes was out and down first, offering his hand up to her. After so long in the one cramped position, she almost fell out into his arms. He held her up as she cursed her weakness, but her legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

Then the others cascaded out behind her, jumping or being helped down by the waiting soldiers, all ushered along into the bright lights of the hotel. She tried to move in that direction with the rest of them, but a strong hand on her arm held her back. She was pulled her out of the circle of light and into the relative darkness at the ‘copters tail. All she could see once again were blue eyes and white teeth.

Talking was impossible, but he was trying, yelling something indistinguishable in her ear.

"What?"

He tried again. She couldn't hear a word and shrugged, holding up her hands, trying to communicate her difficulty. To her shock, he suddenly had his hand on the back of her neck and his lips crushed against hers. She didn't even have time to respond before a firm shove on her arse pushed her back out into the light.

_What the fuck?!_ She staggered forward, towards the last of the group who had exited the 'copter. Her shoulder was caught by one of the Black Brothers, intent on guiding her towards the lights of the hotel.  _Not yet._  She twisted out his of grasp and looked back, in time to see Mr Blue Eyes disappear into the fuselage, all black arse and boots, before the door slammed shut.

The rotors were spinning faster again, the hand on her shoulder more insistent.

Although the lights were out in the ‘copter's cabin, she thought she saw a salute behind the window as the landing skids began to lift off the helipad.

Then a hand was on her other shoulder too and she was dragged back, away from the rising 'copter.

By the time she was behind the glass of the hotel's doors, the 'copter's lights were rapidly disappearing up towards the stars.

"Here Miss." One of the Brothers handed her a folded square of white cotton. She looked at it blankly. What the fuck did she need a handkerchief for? She didn’t cry.

"Err…you should wipe your face Miss."

She looked at her reflection in the glass. One side and the lower half of her face was smeared with black camo grease.

Arya couldn't keep the smile off her lips as she wiped them clean.

 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I remember correctly, the next chapter is where it gets hot. Now THAT’s what I’m looking forward to. In no more than a week’s time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hours later.**

**Hilton hotel, Slaver’s Bay.**

**1400 local time.**

Standing up abruptly and with only a slight wobble, Arya started to pace the room again. Waiting sucked. She’d been awake for almost 48 hours and was _still_ too wired to sleep. A long cool bath and half the contents of the contents of the hotel mini bar had left her no less stung out and only slightly less co-ordinated.

She could tell herself it was the slow-mo movie still playing in her head of Weasel boy’s brains exploding, or that it was watching Hot Pie bleed out keeping her from sleeping. But she’d be lying to herself. Deep down she knew it was Theon fucking Greyjoy. Why hadn’t she realised before that he was the traitor in their midst? All the clues had been there and she’d let him slip through her fingers. She’d never failed a mission before and did not want her first to be because of _that . . . reeking . . . . piece of shit_.  

Throwing herself back down on the bed made the huge Hilton hotel bathrobe slide off her shoulders and flop open. Even with the air con up full it was hot as the seven hells. She couldn’t wait to get back to the cold North and to Winterfell.

Arya supposed she could lie there naked, but Jon had sent word he was on his way. Being lectured by her big brother on her drinking she could handle, being caught naked by him she couldn’t. So she hoisted the bathrobe up over her shoulders for the umpteenth time and tied the towelling belt ightly around her waist. No matter what she tried, it kept slipping free. Bloody hotel bathrobes and bloody big brothers.  

Rolling onto her side, Arya contemplated the remains of the mini bar. She'd lined the alcohol up in order of preference, with Gin at the end. _Yuk_. With any luck, she might have passed out before then.

Someone would make sure she got to the airport and onto the plane, after all, Jon was so keen to keep her safe that she’d had Needle taken off her, an armed guard posted outside her room and kept barefoot and naked. Ok, so she was exaggerating. She still had the bra and panties she’d worn on the rig (washed in the sink and currently drying over the air con unit) but the orange overalls and her boots were so splattered with blood and brains that she’d rolled them into a ball and tossed them on the bathroom floor, never to be worn again. No doubt this was part of Jon’s plan – no clothes meant she couldn’t disappear. Again.

Arya could get past that Black Brother standing outside her room of course, even in her bare feet and her too-big-bathrobe, but there’d be seven hells to pay for it if she did. After the favours he must have called in to rescue her, Jon would never forgive her if she just buggered off without so much as a, ‘thank you’.

To her surprise, Arya found she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to go back to the House of Black and White and report her failure but she did want to see Jon, even if he was just going to lecture her. Most of all, she just wanted to go home.  

With a groan, Arya threw an arm over her eyes. Why was it still daylight? With ten or so hours left to kill until the flight back to King’s Landing, the only option seemed to be to get drunk. Or drunker. She was finding it hard to tell how far gone she was.  

_Fuck it._

She sat bolt upright in bed. What she really needed was to go dancing and get laid. Yeah, that would work, if only she had some clothes. If not in Slaver’s Bay, maybe she could blow off a little steam in King’s Landing before heading north. She could do with taking the edge off before going home as there’d be no chance to get laid once she was back in Winterfell. Yeah, that was a plan, after all it had been six months. Six bloody months without sex and booze and for what? Her first failure.

_Fuck this._

Arya slammed the door on those negative thoughts. Theon Greyjoy and the Guild could wait. It was hard to believe in this heat, but Christmas was only a week away and she had this sudden compulsion to see Winterfell. It was as if she had been sized by some homing instinct she had no choice but to obey. She looked at the phone on the bedside table and thought about calling Sansa to tell her, but Sansa would only ask where she was and why she hadn’t been in touch for so long. Arya wasn’t sober enough for that. Would _never_ be ready for that conversation.

A good excuse wasn’t going to be enough for Sansa. Two years since she’d been home and six months with no contact was going to be hard to explain. Arya didn’t need a good excuse, she needed a _great_ one.

If Sansa turned on the emotional blackmail and with half a mini bar inside her, Arya was liable to tell her sister the truth, “ _I’ve been too deep undercover for the past 6 months to even risk phoning you! Why? Oh, haven’t I told you yet? I’m an Assassin with more kills than I care to remember.”_

Yeah, that would really help.  Sansa had too much on her plate already.

Arya wondered how their mother was, only to quickly push that looming problem to the back of her mind. Two years ago their mother had taken to calling her “Lyanna” on her more confused days. Gods only knew what she was like now. Or how Sansa was coping. Guilt at leaving Sansa alone threatened to bubble up from the deep, dark place Arya kept it hidden.

Desperate to steer her thoughts away from the direction they were heading, Arya leaned over and hit the ‘Radio’ button on the control panel beside the bed. She recognised the song instantly as the opening bars of its jazzy groove oozed out of the speakers, ‘Club Tropicana’ by Wham. Yeah, that was more like it. At least her drinks _were_ free.

Grabbing the next miniature bottle in line she twisted the cap off, sniffed and smiled. _Rum_. _Oh yeah_. There was even a mini bottle of pineapple juice to mix with it. If only she had a paper umbrella and a cherry on a stick her life would be complete. Pouring both little bottles into one glass, she took a deep swallow and closed her eyes, listening to George croon,

**_Where strangers take you by the hand,  
And welcome you to wonderland _ **

_Now wouldn’t that be nice?_ As if on demand, a pair of blue eyes and a Cheshire cat grin appeared in her daydream from nowhere, just like in Alice and Wonderland. It didn’t take much more imagination for Arya to conjure up the body below the face. Those Night’s Watch guys were all ripped. Holding her glass in one hand, she let the other slide down over her stomach. While she daydreamed about a corded neck, broad shoulders and pumped biceps, her fingers found the freshly shaved mound between her legs, still slick with lotion.

 _Oh yeah_ , a bit of Jilling off would help her pass the time.

****_Castaways and Lovers meet,  
Then kiss in Tropicana's heat,  
Watch the waves break on the bay._

She let her fingers explore, then wander in soft circles as she hummed along to George singing,

 __  
**Soft white sands, a blue lagoon,  
Cocktail time, a summer's tune,  
A whole night's holiday.**

Yeah, she needed a holiday. And a man. As if agreeing with her, Mr Blue Eyes nodded his head in time to the music, eyes twinkling mischievously and grinning as her nipples hardened and her breathing became more ragged.

**_Club Tropicana, drinks are free,  
Fun and sunshine - there's enough for everyone._ **

Oh yeah, Arya was sure he’d be packing more than enough for her. She let her mind wander further down, past those abs, following the trail of dark hair, over the lean hips with that sculpted definition she loved, deliberately keeping her eyes on his flank, ignoring that all important part for now, focusing on his thick, braced thighs and a big hand moving slowly up and down between them.

 **** _Pack your bags,_  
And leave tonight.  
Don't take your time,  
Gotta move your feet, don't you miss the flight!  
Cool, cool, cool, cool

Arching her back off the bed, Arya pressed her knees together, hoping for more friction, wishing there was more than just her own hand between her legs, wishing there was _much_ more. Wishing he was here in person and not just a figment of her very vivid imagination, wishing he was standing at the end of her bed with his big fist angled towards her, wrapped around a big, thick, glorious, slick . . .

_Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . ._

She was almost there, when a very loud, very insistent knocking shattered her Club Tropicana daydream and brought her crashing back down to earth in her Slaver’s Bay hotel room.

_Fuck . . . shit . . . Jon . . ._

Slamming her drink down on the side table, she rolled off the bed while simultaneously wiping her sticky fingers on her robe. Trying to pull it up over her shoulders and tight around her waist _again_ , she staggered to the door, wondering what the female equivalent of a cock block was. She was sure she knew.

Was it a clam jam or pussy pass? Or maybe beaver dam? Or maybe Jon was a muffin muzzle? Then she had to slap her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing out loud.

Still the knocking never stopped. For fuck’s sake she knew he was there!

Cursing Jon and his inconvenient timing to the seven hells and back, she stood behind the door and did a final presentability check; robe closed, tits covered, legs together. Sniffing her fingers she grimaced and made a mental note to keep them well away from Jon. She hoped the maids wiped the door handles when they cleaned the rooms as she grabbed hers muttering, “I’m coming.”

That gave her the giggles when she realised how damn true that had been until her bloody brother interrupted.

Arya had to stop and rest her head against the door for a moment while she got herself under control.  

The knocking became even louder, sending vibrations right through the door, giving her a premonition of the way her head was going to feel tomorrow.

“For fuck’s sake I’m coming,” she yelled, sniggering at her own private joke as she flung the door open and then her jaw hit the floor and a tidal wave of embarrassment engulfed her.

 _That_ wasn’t Jon standing there.

 _That_ was the object of her very recent, very interrupted, dirty daydream.

 _That_ was Mr Blue Eyes, with his Cheshire cat grin, asking her,

“Can I come in?”

_“Fuck. Me.”_

-o-   

 __  
  


*Jilling off is the female equivalent of Jacking off in case you didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you hanging there, in a literary cock block or clam jam, but I thought something was better than nothing.
> 
> Don’t ask me why it was WHAM. Maybe because I’d finally got around to watching Deadpool this week? 
> 
> Anyway, that was a completely new introduction to the original chapter 3. I have no idea how I wrote those original chapters in a day. I’ll be back with more hotness asap . . .

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I enjoyed that, but it was harder than I thought. I wasn’t content with just a few tweaks, I had to re-write almost all of it. 
> 
> I have occasionally toyed with the idea of re-writing “Wolf’s Helmet” which was my first attempt at an epic story. It’s only on Fanfic though as I hadn’t discovered AO3 then and I’m not proud enough of it to post it there. However, despite my thinking there’s a great story lurking somewhere under all the fluff, this experience has put me off! 
> 
> I got a review on Fanfic recently telling me “Wolf’s Helmet” contained the hottest thing I’d ever written and you’ll all know that’s saying something! So maybe it’s worth going back after all. Maybe I should just resurrect that one chapter. 
> 
> We’ll see . . .


End file.
